


A Little Bit of Discipline, Probably

by nakajimagardenar



Series: Combatibros Are Love Combatibros Are Life [1]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: AKA YOU WILL NEVER RIP THE IDEA OF DYSFUNCTIONAL COMBATIBRO FAM AWAY FROM ME, AND ONSLAUGHT IS A TOTAL SHIT, ENTIRELY UNNECESSARY SIDE DRAMA, IN WHERE SWINDLE IS INCAPABLE OF SITTING STILL, M/M, Power Dynamics, Request Drabble, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 03:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5951622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakajimagardenar/pseuds/nakajimagardenar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So sometimes when Swindle's been very bad (or very very good) Onslaught just keeps him on his lap all day. No moving. No begging. Just a lap toy to be held and touched and moved wherever Onslaught wants him.</p>
<p>[Drabble prompt from caiusmajor that somehow evolved into Combatibro angst and copious amounts of Swindle feeling guilty for his inbuilt greed while Onslaught disciplines him and some filthy over the table interfacing.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit of Discipline, Probably

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caiusmajor](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=caiusmajor).



> I'm always a slut for Combiners and the Combatibros are The Ideal. ❤

He’s a negligible weight, Onslaught decides.

The Combaticon is motionless, thoughtfully splayed out on a chair, legs spread with a datapad in hand and a very still, very small conmech perched precariously on his lap. The room is deafeningly quiet save for the steady hum of Onslaught’s terminal, and the gentle scratching of metal against rubber when he allows himself to idly drag a hand against one of Swindle’s shoulder tires, fingers giving the rubbery material an occasional squeeze ever now and again. Swindle squirms minutely, catching himself almost as soon as he’s begun, but his movement is not lost on his commanding officer.

“…Swindle,”

The Gestalt Commander’s voice is curt, heavy with a disappointment that makes the jeep wince, “Be still.” The hand on his tire tightens to the point of almost pain, and the discomfort comes close enough to make Swindle squirm. Almost, but not quite. He shutters his optics for a nano-klik, resetting his vocalizer and digging his fingers against his palms. There was no one left to blame for his current predicament but himself - It was by his own doing that landed him here in the first place, being made to endure Onslaught’s unorthodox (and quite frankly unbearable) disciplinary action.

There isn’t any indication Onslaught intends to move any time soon, optic band set squarely on the datapad in his free hand. He’s been pouring over that damn report for the last three Cycles now, and Swindle is sure Onslaught is only doing it to prolong his agony, the stillness of being forced to sit still (on his fucking lap, for Primus’ sake!) having long passed the point of ‘this isn’t too bad I guess’ and into 'I can’t feel my fucking legs my aft is officially numb’ territory. Neither Combaticons move for a long time after the initial rebuke, and the numbness in Swindle’s lower limbs is beginning to crawl up into his hips - Maybe he could… Carefully, the smallest Combaticon shifts his weight, tentatively, denta clenched in concentration and yeah, that was good, he was already beginning to alleviate some of the discomfort in his legs, but -

Onslaught shifted in his chair, moving his weight to the opposite side of his body, the sudden movement enough to cause Swindle to lose his balance and slip gracelessly down the other Decepticon’s knees, his hands reaching out to grab at one of Onslaught’s arms and his back colliding gracelessly against his commander’s chest. “…..” He’s about to say something, a forced apology peppered with just enough of his usual charisma, but before he can so much as right himself he’s already being lifted by the back of his neck, legs kicking out uselessly as he’s made to lie face down on Onslaught’s lap.

“You really can’t take direction, can you?”

The artillery truck sounds almost bored, and despite his undignified position, Swindle can’t help but feel thoroughly offended. “Hey, I can follow direction just fine, thanks,” He replies with a snarl, “It’s not my fault your directions su-ck - !!” He’s cut off somewhat abruptly when he feels Onslaught’s hand run along the curve of his hip, fingertips brushing against the sensitive wiring between the seams of his armor. The conmech makes a small sound, and Onslaught raises an optic ridge at him, but he doesn’t stop until he reaches the curve of Swindle’s aft. And then, he strikes him.

Not hard enough to damage his own team mate of course, but certainly hard enough that it stings, Swindle howling when Onslaught raises his hand to strike him again, and again. “Ons, Ons you - F-Fucking - !!” Coherency goes flying out the proverbial window when his commander strikes him again, the flat of his palm sending pain shooting up Swindle’s spinal strut until he’s reduced to clawing helplessly, ineffectively against Onslaught’s leg. His vocalizer bursts into static when one of Onslaught’s fingers brush against the covers of his interface array, and it’s all Swindle can do to bury his face into the larger Combaticon’s lap, gasping and grunting and squirming against his knee.

“I’m disappointed in you, Swindle.”

Onslaught’s voice cuts through the haze of pleasure-plain clouding the tiny Decepticon’s processors, pulling him out of his agonizing, tantalizing sensory overload and back into the present - The present being Onslaught’s office, and suddenly an inordinate amount of shame burns through the merchant’s spark. No, not because he was being manhandled (and enjoying it, but he’d never admit to that), but because he fucked up. Not as big a fuck up as say, selling off his brothers to some Third World Dictator (he was still getting grief for that, could you believe it), but certainly big enough a fuck up that Megatron had been positively furious, Motormaster the very picture of smug superiority when Swindle’s error in judgment caused his team to lose to those dumb Aerialbots.

“Y-Yeah, look Ons, I know I messed up, I wasn’t - ”

“You weren’t thinking again,” Onslaught interrupts him, the hand that had been striking him in such mortifyingly pleasurable ways hovering just above the boxy swell of Swindle’s aft, “Or rather, you weren’t thinking about anything but a profit again. Do we really mean so little to you that you’d throw us away for some quick cash?” There’s a lot that happens when Onslaught asks that question, panic and shame and a very real fear building up inside the jeep until he’s wide eyed and shaking, “No! No no, of course - Of course not, Onslaught, please - ” It’s a foreign feeling, he thinks to himself later on, how much he’s suddenly terrified of being ostracized by his team again, about how they all still resent what he did, even if things have gone back to the way they were. He never pegged himself as a mech with a conscience, but things had changed in their team dynamic after the incident with Brawl’s personality component, and Swindle was afraid, so very afraid, of just what all that meant.

“Please, please Onslaught, I didn’t - ” He’s silenced by a finger pressed against his lips, and he has to reset his optics twice before he can bring himself to raise his head and meet his commander - His brother’s gaze. For the uninitiated, reading Onslaught’s expression was practically impossible, what with the visor and the battle mask and the neutral body language, but Swindle had spent enough time with the other to realize he was being given a look full of thinly amused pity. “Don’t beg, Swindle. It doesn’t suit you.” The hand comes crashing down again, harder than before, hard enough to leave tiny little dents against the metal of Swindle’s aft. He screams, struggling uselessly against Onslaught’s grip, short legs kicking out and hitting nothing. “Stop it, Ons - Stop!”

This was humiliation at its finest, intense and impossible to ignore, and he was sure his fear and pain and mortification (oh fuck, he wasn’t aroused, he couldn’t possibly be aroused) was bleeding heavily through the gestalt link, and Primus, everyone would know, everyone already knows -

He whimpers softly when Onslaught ceases his assault after what feels like an eternity, the other Decepticon’s grip on his neck loosening a fraction and soft, feather light fingers dancing across his sore backside. “…You’re leaking,” Onslaught comments dryly, but there’s just the tiniest hint of amusement (fondness?) in his words, and for a second Swindle is sure he’s going to get an even heavier spanking, but instead of pain he’s greeted by the feeling of his brother’s hand tracing the seams of his interface cover, a blunt finger tapping almost demandingly against his spike housing. “Well, open up, Swindle.” The conmech makes a feeble noise of protest, entirely too sore to even begin to move away from Onslaught’s probing fingers, engines whining when the artillery truck taps firmly against the corner of his covers.

“…..” There’s a brief pause before Swindle gives, sliding his cover open, half pressurized spike slipping out. He would have looked away in shame if he wasn’t currently face down on Onslaught’s lap, and he tries to think about anything but the fact that the head of his interface was bumping against the side of Onslaught’s thigh. The Gestalt Commander makes it astoundingly difficult to do so, however, when he reaches down and wraps thick fingers around the jeep’s spike, flicking his wrist and giving him an almost painful squeeze. “You’ve been hanging around with Vortex too much,” Onslaught murmurs, and Swindle can swear he can hear a smile in the larger Decepticon’s voice, “Imagine, getting hard while you’re being disciplined. That’s Vortex’s kink, isn’t it?”

Swindle doesn’t reply, faceplates burning up when Onslaught just chuckles to himself, the sound rumbling down the Decepticon’s chest and reverberating through Swindle’s chassis. He rubs his thumb against the head of Swindle’s spike, earning himself an electric mewl of pleasure, smearing clear, warm transfluid along the base before giving his wrist another lazy flick, pumping the smaller Combaticon at a pace that even Dead End would find impossibly frustrating. “Nggh, Ons you, literally f-fuck you - ”

He doesn’t bother to downplay his laugh at Swindle’s pathetic excuse for an insult, digging his fingers against the gentle grooves of his team mate’s biolights (purple, of course, just like those impossibly large optics of his) and flicking his thumb against the head another time. “Ask me nicely and I might consider it.” He gives Swindle’s spike another long, lazy stroke, satisfaction settling heavy on his shoulders when the jeep purrs, back arching and hips twitching, and it’s all Swindle can do to keep himself from rutting against Onslaught’s hand, fingers digging desperately against his leg, and then -

The bite was unexpected, Swindle’s small, sharp denta denting the metal of Onslaught’s leg and earning himself a wince from his otherwise calmly detached team mate. “That wasn’t very nice,” He growls, pulling Swindle off of him with a sharp tug, carelessly shoving him down face first (again) on his table. “No, actually that almost hurt.”

It’s a small victory, but a victory none the less, and even when the wind is knocked out of him the conmech can’t help but smile to himself. He’s still frustratingly unsatisfied, but he’s willing to put that aside if it means getting Onslaught worked up enough to properly work him through an overload. He doesn’t have the chance to roll over onto his back before one of Onslaught’s hands slams against the back of his head, one of his legs slipping between Swindle’s and pushing them apart. He’s never been one to care about his height (or lack of it), but it’s practically mortifying that he’s can’t even reach the floor from his current position, and suddenly the emptiness between his legs is filled up by Onslaught’s girth, his hips pressing against the back of Swindle’s thighs.

“You’re such a little shit,” This time it’s Swindle who barks out an undignified laugh at Onslaught’s unsolicitated comment, “Yeah sure, but you love me for it, don’t you Ons.” As if to prove his point, the merchant raises his hips, all but wagging his aft in Onslaught’s direction, the tell tale sound of his valve’s cover sliding open with a resounding click. The artillery truck pauses, taking in the sight of Swindle’s aft up in the air, transfluid dripping down his tight valve and staining the inside of his thighs. Onslaught’s hands are on Swindle’s hips in an instant, clutching him hard enough to steal an almost pained gasp from the jeep, and his own interface panel snaps open with an urgency that betrays his own arousal. He gives the smaller Combaticon a moment to let that sound sink in before he’s burying himself to the hilt, hissing sharply through static at how unbelievably tight Swindle is, how absolutely perfect he feels wrapped snugly around him.

He remains motionless for a nano-klick, earning himself a desperate mewl from the mech beneath him, before rolling his hips, the ridges of his spike brushing up against the walls of Swindle’s valve, his calipers squeezing Onslaught almost unbearably tight. The smaller Decepticon gasps, clawing at Onslaught’s table and knocking over a meticulously piled stack of datapads (he’d have to deal with that later), hips thrusting back to meet the deliberately even pace Onslaught has set out for them. The blunt head of Onslaught’s interface nudges against Swindle’s ceiling node and the conmech has to bite himself to keep from screaming when he comes; thick, sticky transfluid dribbling out of his spike, staining his stomach, dripping down his legs and pooling on the table.

Onslaught growls, and the sound is absolutely feral, utterly possessive and it travels right through Swindle, and that’s all the warning he gets before he’s roughly flipped over, hands pinned over his head and legs spread even further apart. He’s almost surprised to realize Onslaught’s retracted his battle mask, before his commander leans over and catches his lips in a darkly possessive kiss, denta nipping at his bottom lip and drawing energon. Onslaught smiles into the kiss, glossa soothing over Swindle’s bruised lip, and the smaller Combaticon concedes to let him in, one of Onslaught’s hands coming to rest heavily against the back of his head, tilting him back and deepening their kiss with a greed even Swindle would be proud of.

It’s almost shameful, the way he’s letting Onslaught kiss him, kiss him like this; but he can’t be bothered, he doesn’t want to be bothered to stop, not when Onslaught starts to move again, thrusting inside of him even as he takes hold of Swindle’s spike and guides him into another overload with one hand, the other seeking out one of his own and lacing their fingers together; the jeep convulsing and tightening around Onslaught and dragging him down with him. He buries his face in the juncture of Swindle’s neck and shoulder, digging his denta against the sensitive wiring and hissing sharply, his overload achingly long and drawn out. He takes hold of the jeep’s hips and raises him up, hooking Swindle’s legs over his shoulders and filling him completely, satisfaction reflecting in his expression when Swindle all but paws at him, and Onslaught bends forward to press a chaste kiss against his brother’s forehead. Neither of them move for a very long time after that, but then -

“…You belong here, Swindle. You belong with us. I won’t allow you to get away.”

**Author's Note:**

> An oldish drabble prompt for caiusmajor back on tumblr - Speaking of tumblr, send me some prompts (Transformers or Undertale) and talk to me about Combiners at http://muffetsofficial.tumblr.com/ !!


End file.
